


Surrender on a bed of white flowers (The love story of Jord and Nikandros)

by Fragiledewdrop



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Kings Rising, and, set during kings rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6606433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fragiledewdrop/pseuds/Fragiledewdrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Nikandros sees Jord they are in Ravenel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender on a bed of white flowers (The love story of Jord and Nikandros)

_“I wonder if he dreams of surrender_  
_On a bed of white flowers_

 _Or is that the mistaken hope_  
_Of every would-be conqueror?”_

 

_From “The conquest of Arsaces”_

 

 

The first time Nikandros sees Jord they are in Ravenel.

An army of Akielons is preparing to march headfirst into the Regent's death trap at Charcy, fighting a war that is not theirs in the heart of enemy territory, and this is not even the most unbelievable thing that has happened in the last few hours.

Nikandros will fight, of course, and if necessary he will die without a second thought. He'll do it gladly, because Damianos asked him too.

The air is thick with the tension of thousands of men high on the adrenaline of an imminent fight. He inhales it slowly, relishing in the familiarity of this atmosphere.

These are the legions of Akielos on the eve of battle: hundreds of lions pacing in a cage, drunk on the heady smell of the blood of their prey. There is no place here for machinations or craven sidestepping. No wonder the Veretians are cowering in fear.

  
He suppresses a surge of disgust: today they're going to face their enemies head on, like men, and a bunch of Veretian dogs quivering in their boots would be an impediment and not an advantage. “Let them hide”, he thinks, “let us do their dirty work for them. There is more honour in the lowest of our slaves than in the mightiest of their kings”.

  
Then it happens: a flurry of movement at the edge of is sight, a little cluster of blue in a sea of red, a starbust banner. Twenty man, no more, a stone faced soldier at their head. “We want to fight”, says Jord, looking at Damen with mistrust and grudging respect in his eyes.

And so it begins.

 

  
_______________________________________

________________________________________

 

  
On the blood-soaked field of Charcy Nikandros fights as he never has before, cursing the Prince of Vere under his breath. Damn him. And damn Damianos and his pigheaded, blind trust in that coward.

They're going to die fighting for a nation of snakes, pawns in a game Nikandros doesn't yet understand, and, loyal fool that he is, he can't even bring himself to regret it. He loses himself in the rhythm of the fight, his mind focused on reaching his king and stopping him from doing something idiotic like getting himself killed. Damen is a seasoned soldier, dammit, a fucking war hero. You'd expect he would have learned by now to wait for someone to cover his side before he throws himself into danger. He slices his way through the Regent's army, shouting orders, the movements of his troops clear in his mind and his eyes fixed on Damianos.

In the turbin of blood, flesh and metal he doesn't notice the enemy advancing on him from behind, sword held high and ready to strike. One of his man shouts a warning, and he turns just in time to face his end head on (At least it's a warrior's death. At least it's honourable. At least he got to see Damen one last time). The sword is two inches away from severing his head from his shoulders. He won't close his eyes.

 

The blow never lands.

 

The attacker gurgles and slumps, a blade protruding from his abdomen. Nikandros looks at his rescuer, expecting to face one of his men and ready to commit their features to memory. Whoever it is he owes them his life: as is costumary among his people he will have to find a way to repay them, through his actions or even his death, until they declare themeselves satisfied. The man, ashen faced and coverd in blood, is Jord.

Their eyes lock for a moment, then Jord turns as if nothing has happened and throws himself back in the fray. Stunned, Nikandros remembers Jord's face as he realized that his prince wasn't coming; he remebers Damen offering him a chance to escape, to bring his men to safety. Jord owes no loyalty to Damianos. He could have gone, his honour intact, and left the Akielons to die here for his country; instead he stayed, fighting to the death for a prince who has abandoned him. This steadfast loyalty, this particular brand of reckless bravery are not qualities he has ever thought to find in a Veretian. He would sooner have expected him to switch sides, or at least to keep to the back lines, letting the others do the actual fighting for him.

Nikandros wonders for a split second what exactly will it take to repay this man- if they both survive, that's it.  
This sobering thought brings him back to reality and he turns on his heels, eyes on Damianos. He's still alive, thank the Gods, and all that matters now is keeping him that way (and sane, if at all possible).

Anything else will have to wait.

 

________________________________________

  
The prince of Vere is blond. The prince of Vere is blond and cold and beautiful, brilliant and untouchable and anything Damianos could possibly want in a partner. The prince of Vere is very clearly the tool the universe has chosen to punish Nikandros for the sins committed in all his past lifetimes combined, and possibly in all the lives he has yet to live.

Why, oh why does everybody seem to know that the easiest way to the trhrone of Akielos passes through Damen's bed?  
That boy could be Jokaste's twin brother, and Nikandros would bet Delpha that their minds resemble each other even more closely than their looks.

 Except Delpha is no longer his to bet, because that brat, that spoiled princeling who has never in his life set foot on a battlefield, has apparently found a way to extort her from Damianos. In a couple of days Laurent has stolen Nikandros's home, caused the death of twelve hundred of his soldiers and wrapped his best friend around his little finger. If he wanted to make the Kyros of Delpha his enemy he has most certainly succeded.

Fuming, Nikandros strides from the pavillon where the treaty has just been signed towards the horses, wanting nothing more than to go back to his tent and get spectacularly drunk. In his haste he almost doesn't notice the man saddling the horse next to his. Almost.

  
“Why do you follow him?” he barks in heavily accented veretian.

  
Jord starts and turns to face him. His surprise is understandable: they have never exchanged a word and, except for that moment at Charcy, they've never aknowledged each other's existence.

  
“I've seen you fight” Nikandros goes on “I've seen you lead. You are not an idiot. Why on earth do you follow that snake?”

  
Being directly and unexpectedly addressed by the second more powerful man in the Akielon army apparently doesn't intimidate Jord in the least. He looks Nikandros dead in the eye. “Who are you to question my loyalty?”he asks in a cold voice “You follow a liar who murdered a man and then tricked his brother into spreading his legs for him”. Nikandros's hand flies to the hilt of his sword. The weapon is half out of the sheath when he stops. The future of his nation rests on this alliance: he won't be so easily provoked into killing a Veretian. Furthermore, like it or not, he owes this man his life. He exhales. His hand unclenches, slowly, on the hilt.

  
“Damianos didn't leave his men to die at Charcy.” he spits out, clipped.

  
“Neither did he”. There is a surety in Jord's voice, a deeply engrained certainty that Nikandros wasn't expecting. It's the same tone he uses when he speaks of Damen. How can Laurent possibly deserve this kind of devotion, from a man such as this?  
“And even if he had” Jord continues, and there is somenthing dark in his eyes now, something dangerous “it wouldn't make a difference. I would follow any man whose aim is to kill the Regent. Even an enemy. Even a traitor.”

  
Before Nikandros can fully grasp the meaning of this sentence, Jord nods curtly in farewell. Without so much as a by your leave he mounts and takes off at full gallop towards Fortaine.

  
________________________________________

 

  
They are all going to die. Nikandros feels certain of this as he walks away from a meeting in the main tent of the Veretian camp, Makedon and a small contingent of men at his side. The Regent and Kastor won't even have to make an effort to defeat them, because their own armies are going to slaughter each other before they cross the border. The men are visibly itching for a fight, and Nikandros is certain that if it weren't for Laurent's orders he wouldn't be able to reach the Akielon camp unscathed.

Makedon presence doesn't help, especially today. Judging by the particularly venomous glares their are receiving, the news of last night's events has spread like wild fire and the Veretians don't seem at all appeased by the public execution of the perpetrators- not that he blames them: if the injured boy had been one of his soldiers he would want to take matters in his own hands too. The moral among the Akielons isn't much higher. If they don't find a way to defuse the tension, the trip to Marlas will most certainly feature a few unsavory, bloody interludes.

  
They are passing by the training field when a familiar voice stops Nikandros in his tracks.

  
“I thought Akielons were supposed to be brave.” says Jord. His voice is carfully lowered, so that the words do not reach any of the Veretian soldiers who are practicing in the field. “Is this what you barbarians call honour? Torturing a boy who can't defend himself? Are you too scared to fight your equals?”

  
Nikandros turns to face him. “You are lucky Makedon doesn't understand veretian” he says, calmly.

  
“You are lucky no one has tried to lynch him” Jord replies, completely unfazed “if it weren't for our prince's orders that dog wouldn't leave this camp alive”

  
Well, it turns out Nikandros isn't as good at reading people as he thought. He has been keeping an eye on this man for weeks, and has apparently managed to miss the rather obvious fact that he is batshit crazy.  
He grabs Jord by the arm and drags him foward, so he can hiss the next words in his ear.“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  
“I am trying to get you to fight me”

  
Nikandros draws back, startled. There is something in Jord's eyes that remids him unnervingly of Laurent. “Any man in this camp who lays hand on an Akielon is punishable by death.”He says flatly.

Jord tilts his head “Yes, I think that is abundantly clear”.

  
Nikandros valourosly suppresses a surge of annoyance “And yet you” he goes on, talking coldly but slowly, as if to a very difficult child “are goading me into a fight. ME.”

  
“Never, my lord.” The intonation and the small bow that accompany the words are just this side of mocking. Crazy is not a strong enough word to describe this idiot. “I am humbly asking you to give me the opportunity to measure my skills against yours. According to my prince, someone has been rather insistently requesting a display of Veretian fighting.” He says the last sentence looking at Makedon, who is visibly annoyed by his inability to understand the exchange.

  
It takes a moment for the meaning of the words to hit home, but when it does Jord's uncharacteristic behaviour suddenly makes sense: this is not the suicidal act of a reckless soldier; it's the strategic move of a prince. The men want a fight, that much is clear, and no amount of punishment doled out from above will be enough to stifle that urge. The problem goes beyond prejudice and decades old rivalry: the Veretians want to react to the endless provocations of the last few days, culminated in the most recent deeds of Makedon's men; the Akielons, on the other hand, are still sore over their abandonment at Charcy and won't show an ounce of respect towards their companions until they prove with actions their ability and willingness to fight. A duel between Jord and Nikandros is the perfect outlet for the tension. There will be no casualties; the Veretians will have the satisfaction of seeing one of their own take on the Kyros of Delpha himself; the Akielons, Makedon's men in particular, will have proof that the Veretians can hold their own in a fair fight, with no lies or tricks. Jord is the perfect choice: he might be only a common soldier, but he has fought at Charcy. This is Laurent's way of whispering to the Akielons “See? I wasn't with you at Charcy, but my most trusted, most skilled men were there. We have already bled together, even if you are choosing to forget it”. As for himself, Nikandros realizes with a jolt that, no matter what he thinks, he has just been forced to play along. Jord has provoked him, heavily, and even if his men haven't understood the exact words the tone was unmistakable. He can't walk away from this fight.

  
He's starting to realize how the prince of Vere has managed to put together an army.

  
“I've been told you are the best swordsman Akielos has to offer, after your king” says Jord, a smirk on his lips “Care to prove it?”

Nikandros may be gifted with boundless patience, if he says so himself (he has to be, in order to put up with Damen), but he's only human. He unclasps his cloak and hands it to Makedon, at whose questioning glance he says “This man is gracefully offering you your display of veretian swordplay”. The befuddled expression on Makedon's face makes the whole thing worth it.

  
He notices they are starting to attract attention. Good. This is not the same as a duel between their kings, but hopefully it will be enough to satisfy the men until the games at Marlas.  
He turns toward Jord. “Draw.”

  
Jord smiles.

  
________________________________________

 

  
After the games Nikandros breathes a sigh of relief. It's done. The armies have managed to see beyond their differences, no one has died, Laurent has somehow managed to ride a perfect okton (he is learning not to ask questions when the prince is concerned. He never likes the answers.) and Makedon is finally starting to behave. Hopefully they can stop fighting this endless internal battle and start to worry about the real enemy.

  
In the joyous mayhem of the feast he catches a glimpse of Damen, who is looking at Laurent with such open want in his eyes it's a wonder he doesn't combust. Nikandros feels cold fury starting to well up within his chest, and very deliberately DOESN'T think about his friend's scarred back. Killing their ally, he repeats to himself for the hundreth time that day, won't do any good to Damen or to Akielos. This doesn't stop his mind from picturing Laurent suffering the most drawn out and painful deaths known to man.  
Bringing a cup of wine to his lips he scans the room for a distraction and his eyes fall on Jord, who is moving towards him.

  
Immediatly his mind empties of death and blood and is filled instead with the recollection of lean muscles, sweaty limbs, the lethal glimmer of steel.

Sparring with Jord and watching him compete in the games were two completely different experiences. When they were fighting that morning at Fortaine Nikandros had been too lost in the intricate dance of their blades to notice anything other than Jord's incredible tecnique. It is rare for him to find a swordsman that matches him in skill, but Jord is most definitely his equal. He spars like he talks, like he acts: without unnecessary flourish, daringly and recklessly, but cleverly, neither holding back nor wasting strenghth in unnecessary displays of brute force. The duel went on for almost two hours, and it was exhausting, but also earily invigorating. He found himself yearning to win, but at the same time strangely unwilling to stop, wanting to lose himself in that mesmerizing back and fort. The duel ended because Jord stumbled. It was a stupid mistake, due to tiredness, one that Nikandros could have easily committided himself, but it was enough to lose him the match. They stood there panting, looking at each other like they had found a heady wine in a cup from wich they were expecting to drink poison. Then Jord bowed in respect.

  
In the following days, during the ride to Marlas, Nikandros found himself itching to pick up his sword every time he caught sight of Jord. He wanted see if another duel would be like the first, if it would spark the same exhilaration. He had never felt anything similar.

  
When Jord took part in the games, though, Nikandros was just a spectator. None of the competitors were remotely close to him in skill, and none of the encounters as exciting as their own duel. Soon, Nikandros lost interest in the fighting itself and began too admire the lines of Jord's body, the fluidity of his movements. It was hypnotic.

  
Jord isn't pretty by any stretch of the immagination. He has harsh features that are nothing like those of the boys whose beauty is sung by the poets of Akielos; he is strong, but deceptively so, without the bulk of muscles that immediately identifies warriors like Pallas or Damen; his face isn't of the sort that turns heads and makes girls flush, but its composure and its severity cause the gaze to linger; his skin, Nikandros is sure, is not flaweless, but marred by calluses and scars. His body is not made to be admired, or caressed, or worshipped. It's a weapon, meant for a purpose. He reminds Nikandros of an old grey wolf: a predator, silent and stealthy, dangerous as an enemy but difficult to befriend. Beatiful not because he is elegant or powerful or refined, but because he's deadly.

 

 

Deadly, apparently, except when he's drunk.

As Jord draws near Nikandros notices the flushed cheeks, the lucid eyes, the faltering gait, but above all the frank smile that lits his face, so different from his usual tight-lipped smirk. He seems so much younger like this.  
Nikandros is still looking at that smile when Jord reaches him.

“My lord” he says, bowing gracelessy. Red wine sloshes in the cup he's holding, and a few stray drops fall on the floor.

  
“Soldier”says Nikandros, his own lips quirking up. “If you are here to receive my congratulations for your victory, I'm sorry to say that I cannot offer them. It would be awfully conceited of me to compliment your skill when I've already proved that mine is far superior.”

  
Surprisingly, Jord laughs. “Indeed it would”. He tilts back his head and loudly drains the cup, then climbs the stairs that separate him from the high table and sits uncerimoniously next to Nikandros.  
“What about you, lord Nikandros of Delpha?” Jord says his name slowly, the words slightly slurred “You didn't take part to any of the competitions. You don't like wrestling naked and covered in oil?”

  
This startles a laugh out of Nikandros. “Why? Were you planning to challenge me?”

  
Jord lifts a sarcastic eyebrow. “ What?”says Nikandros, amused “I thought maybe you wanted a rematch. A chance to defeat me”

  
“In a wrestling match?”is the dry reply “I may be reckless, but I'm not suicidal”.

  
Nikandros thinks of Jord, marching stone faced into a deathtrap at Charcy, facing king Damianos with open mistrust in his eyes, insulting Makedon in front of a battalion of Akielons, provoking the Kyros of Delpha into a duel. He thinks of Jord, who, if a drunk Damen is to be believed, once called Laurent of Vere a cold blooded son of a bitch to his face.

  
He snorts. “Could have fooled me.”

  
“Like you are one to talk” says Jord, sliding closer and looking Nikandros in the eye.“You led an army in enemy territory breaking the terms of peace on the off chance that my prince was telling the truth about Kastor;” he starts counting on his fingers while he speaks “you knowingly walked into a trap at Charcy because _your_ prince asked you too; you gave up your lands to Vere to cement a desperate alliance; you are marching against the forces of two kingdoms with and army of men that would sooner kill each other than their enemy, and” he concludes smugly “you don't watch your back while you fight. I think you are every bit as much of an idiot as I am, my friend”

  
Nikandros's heartbeat speeds up at the realization that Jord has been studying him as much as he has been studying Jord. It dawns on him that this is the first time they have openly aknowledged what happened at Charcy, and suddenly he feels like they're tethering on the edge of some unknown abyss. He takes a generous drink of wine and then, in an effort to lighten the mood, he says jockingly: “ _Friend? Idiot?_ Do you know who you are talking to?”

  
“Oh, please forgive me, my lord.” Jord's words are dripping sarcasm “Are you going to have me flogged for disrespect?”

  
“I might”, says Nikandros in his most solemn tone, earning himself a look of mock terror.

  
Affection swells unexpectedly in his chest, and he must be drunker than he thought, because the next words are out before he has a chance to stop them. “You know,”he hears himself say in a low voice “if you really want to roll naked in the sand with me, you need only ask.”

  
Jord's expression freezes. After a moment he turns and stares at someone in one of the lower tables. “Jord?” Nikandros asks, suddenly nervous “Jord, what's the matter?”. When he doesn't respond, Nikandros follows his gaze and finds himself staring at Lady Loyse. He vaguely remembers seeing Jord talking briefly to her the day before. “What the...” Before he can express his confusion Jord stands up. There's no trace of a smile on his face. “No offense,” he murmurs “but I'd rather be flayed alive than fuck another aristocrat”. He walkes away, leaving Nikandros stunned in his wake.

  
________________________________________

  
Jord sleeps with boys. He doesn't discriminate between Akielons and Veretians, soldiers and servants, free men and slaves, but they are all young men in their prime, barely out of adolescence, and they all have smooth skin and dark curles. Once he begins to notice, Nikandros wonders how on earth he could have missed it. Jord is not subtle about it: he sleeps with them in tents and in barracks, sometimes under the open sky, but never in his chambers.

When Nikandros asks, the answers are always the same. The boys tell him that Jord is a good lover (this doesn't come as a surprise. Anyone who is able to bed these many people without paying them just _has_ to be good); that he is always gentle, and lays with them with his eyes closed, his hands roaming on their skin and tangling in their curls; that sometimes he just holds them and murmurs pleas for forgiveness against their lips; that when he loses himself in plesure he always whispers the same name, over and over again.

  
At Karthas it's the turn of a twenty year old stable boy. Nikandros watches from the shadows as he leads Jord in his room near the kitchen, then as Jord sits on the boy's straw cot. The boy closes the door, and he waits.

  
The night is bleeding into day when Jords finally comes out, leisurely rebuckling his belt. Nikandros steps into the light of the torches. “ Damianos told me” he says “about Aimeric”.

  
Jord tensens. It's evident that he hadn't noticed his presence, and the surprise is enough that his usually composed espression cracks, dissolving in a mess of hurt and fury. “So?” he spits in the tense silence “Have you come to advise me on the dangers of letting an enemy into my bed? You should save that lecture for your king.”

He starts to move away, but Nikandros stops him with a hand on his arm. “He's gone” he says calmly, staring at the back of Jord's bowed head “He's not going to come back, no matter how tightly you hold onto him”. Jord looks at him, and the venom in his gaze is enough to give Nikandros pause.

“You...” starts Jord, and the word sounds like an accusation “Don’t you dare dare... speak of him” he talks among heavy breaths, as if every syllable is a rock falling from his lips. “You know nothing”.  
Nikandros lets go of his arm, but neither of them moves. The light of the torches flickers on the walls.

  
“When I thought him dead” he finally says, softly “I grieved for him. I stole his father's royal pin. It was treason: I risked a capital sentence just to have something to remember him by” he huffs a bitter, humourless laugh “I don't remember how many nights I've spent awake, staring at that thing, but I still had it on me when we entered Ravenel”. It's his turn to lower his eyes. “ I saw him die in my dreams, alone and betrayed, and I wasn't at his side, I didn't protect him. I could hear his voice, begging me to help him” He lifts his head. Jord is a statue in front of him. “I thought of him every day; he was closer to me than my own shadow. I thought if I remembered him, if I let his ghost haunt me, he would never truly be gone, but I was a fool. He never came back”.

  
The weight of these words sits heavily between them. Nikandros can't remember the last time he bared to another so much of himself.

  
“He's alive. You haven't lost him” says Jord eventually, in a whisper. “ He _did_ come back”

  
Nikandros shakes his head “No, he didn't. Not really. He has come back a king and a slave. The man I once knew died in Ios at the hand of his brother.” His lips twist into a wry smile. “Sometimes I still mourn him”. With a weary sigh he sits on he floor, leaning back on the wall; Jord mirrors is position on the opposite side of the corridor.

He's almost asleep when he hears Jord's words, his voice nearly lost even in the little distance that separates them. “I should have realized what he was planning. I should have stopped him. He...”his breath hitches suspiciously, and if possible his voice is even lower when he adds “he shouldn't have been alone”

  
Something heavy catches in Nikandros's throat. He does his best to swallow. He surprises himself with the gentleness in his voice when he replies. “He made his own choices. There's nothing you could have done to stop him.”

  
Surrounded by the dimming light of the torches, they sit in the silence of the corridor until the break of dawn.

 

  
________________________________________

 

  
Nikandros comes out of the inn equally irritated and bemused.

  
“Your prince is a bitch” he says upon entering the barracks.

  
Jord looks up from where he is laying down his bedroll.“What else is new? ”he replies in hesitant akielon, the recently learned words still heavy on his tongue.

Sitting down next to him, Nikandros mutters a few choice curses that would make any sailor in Ios blush, and Jord seems entirely too familiar with them for a guy who could'nt even ask for directions in akielon a few weeks ago. “Well now” Jord deadpans “That is no way to speak of royalty. You are courting treason. _Again_. Is that an hobby of yours?”.

Nikandros shoots him a dirty look and tosses a deck of card on the floor between them.  
Jord takes a couple of cards in his hand “What's the stake?” he asks calmly, an infuriating glint in his eyes.

  
“I want a chance to win back my knife” he answers.

  
“If you're so eager to lose the rest of your weaponry, my lord, who am I to stop you?”

  
“Shut up and play.”

It's new, this easy cameradarie between them, born from an handful of days spent together on the road. It started when they left Karthas on this fool's errand of a mission, headed towards Ios with a couple of soldiers, two crazy princes and two traitors that, in Nikandros's humble opinion, belong on the gallows and definitely not under the open sky, within easy reach of the usurpers they have helped gain power. But apparently Nikandros's strong objection is not worthy of note.

  
They were hesitant around each other at first, the vulnerability shown that night at Karthas making them wary and uncomfortable. Then one evening Jord approched him by the campfire, handing him a practice sword hilt first. “Spar with me” he said in akielon. Surprise soon gave way to giddy delight as Nikandros remembered the exhilaration of their duel at Fortaine. Adrenaline coursing in his veins, he got up and took the sword. “It would be my honour”

  
The nightly sparring sessions soon became an habit, and they were followed by games of cards (which Nikandros, unnervingly, found himself constantly losing), war stories told by the fire and half drunken lessons in each other's native tongues.

They never mentioned Aimeric or Charcy, but Nikandros couldn't help but notice that Jord had stopped bringing people to his tent. Granted, there wasn't exactly an abundance of candidates in their small company, but Aktis, who fit the bill perfectly and had been making eyes at Jord for the entirety of the trip, was constantly ignored.

  
Nikandros marveled at how rank didn't seem to affect their interactions. Jord treated him as an equal, never intimidated by his title or his power, and instead of being offended Nikandros found it refreshing: it was unusual for him to deal with people who saw him as himself, not the famed Kyros of Delpha. When he askesd Jord about it he just shrugged and said “You may be a nobleman, but you don't act like one.”

One evening, laughing with Jord by the fire, he realized that this was the closer he had ever come to friendship with anyone other than Damen.

They stop playing cards before Nikandros can actually lose his chiton.

  
“You are lucky you are so rich”says Jord, collecting his winnings “Or I would have played you ot of your home by now”.

  
“I don't know. You might still manage it”.

Jord gives him a considering look “You're right. I guess it depends on the length of this campaign; give me another month and I'll make you lose Delpha” he pauses for effect “Oh, wait...you have already gambled it.” He shakes his head mockingly “You're definitely the worst player I've ever met”.

Nikandros shoves him playfully “And _I_ am the one who courts treason”. Jord laughs. As always, the sound warms something inside Nikandros.

  
“Is this what it would be like? Living in peace?”he says after a moment “Travelling, selling cloth, sleeping in inns. No armies or treason or politics to worry about. Doesn't sound like a bad life. Think I could give it a try?”

  
Jord looks surprised .“You can't be serious” he says.

  
“Why not? You said it yourself, I don't act like a nobleman.”

  
Jord scoffs. “You don't act like a _Veretian_ nobleman. It doesn't make you any less of one. You have nobility in your bones, like Damianos: even in ruin or enslaved, you could never be anything other than who you are.”

  
“Perhaps you are right,” says Nikandros, after a few seconds of thougthful silence “but what about you? Don't you ever tire of war? Of death? You are not chained to a title. When this mission is over you can do anything you want.”

  
A familiar shadow passes over Jord's face. “I want the Regent dead” he says slowly “I want to see Laurent crowned. After that, I don't know.” He lays down on his bedroll. “I'm not even sure I really care”.

  
________________________________________

 

After what happened at the Kingsmeet Nikandros looks for Jord.

He finds him sitting against a tree at the edge of the camp, far from the light of the fire. He hands him a skin of wine. “I'm sorry for before.” he says “Damen was right. If he were the one left behind I would have reacted in the same way”.

Without turning to face him Jord takes the skin and drinks. He is still staring at the darkness in front of him as he speaks. “He doesn't deserve what they'll put him through” he says in a flat voice, and it's clear he is not speaking of Damen “He doesn't deserve to face it alone”.

  
For a moment Nikandros thinks about how he would feel, if Damen was indeed the one alone in the hands of his enemies.“No,he doesn't” he says, and he is surprised by how much he means it, how much his opinion of the Prince of Vere has changed since the day he first met him at Fortaine.

  
“Damianos will go after him” he adds, because he knows that, no matter what he says, he won't be able to convince his friend to go back on his decision.

  
Jord lets out a bitter laugh. “They are going to get themselves killed, aren't they?”

“Probably” Nikandros replies dryly.

  
Jord takes an other sip of wine. “Then we go and die beside them”.

  
Nikandros doesn't even have to nod his assent.

 

________________________________________

 

 

The day after the trial Jord is surprised to find himself still alive, yesterday's event like the memory of a dream in his mind.

The prince's name has finally been cleared, and Jord doesn't think he will ever forget the look on his face when his people knelt before him.

  
The Regent is dead. Jord got to see the blade piercing his flesh, his blood staining the marble floor, the last dregs of life draining from his eyes; in that glorious moment, savouring the sweet taste of revenge, he thought of Aimeric.

  
He should be rejoycing now. He should feel like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Instead, every fibre of his being is still awashed with impotent rage: he wants to tear flesh apart, to spill blood, to feel bones crushing in his hands. He realizes, now, that there is no punishment harsh enough, no revenge savage enough to quell his hatred. Death, he thinks, was an undeserved clemency for that monster.

  
A knock on his door startles him. He feels a sharp pang of pain and realizes that his fists are clenched so tightly his nails are drawing blood. Making a conscious effort to relax, he opens the door. “What is it?”he says sharply. “Jord of Vere” says the Akielon soldier on his threshold, bowing his head. Jord has to fight back a laugh at the display of respect. “The Kyros of Ios requests your presence in his chambers”

 

 

 

     Jord enters the room and freezes.

Nikandros is standing in a corner, arms crossed, doing an excellent job of looking imposing and impassive, as usual; next to him, clad in black and with her chin held high, is Lady Loyse. Her clear eyes immediatly fix on Jord. He swallows.

  
He has tried, more than once, to speak with her, but her cold, open disdain for Jord's social condition always prevented him from voicing his thoughts. He wonders if she knows what exactly he was to Aimeric; if, all this time, she has actually been trying to avoid her son's lover, the man he wronged most of all. It's easy to ignore a soldier, of course; on the other hand, avoiding an audience requested by the newly appointed Kyros of Ios would be nothing short of suicidal, especially for a woman whose political position is already more than a little unstable. If Nikandros wants her to talk to Jord, Loyse is unable to refuse.

  
Jord doesn't know if he wants to thank him or kill him.

  
“I'll leave you to it” Nikandros says, and walks out.

  
They stare at each other. The temperature in the room seems to drop. Then she speaks.

  
“So it's you. I should have realized the first time you approached me: _“I'm sorry for your loss. Your son was a good soldier”_ ” Her voice, slightly mocking, is even colder than her gaze. “I'm given to understand that you appreciated his looks way more than his skill with a sword”

  
Jord refuses to rise to the bait. “And his wit more than his looks.” he says calmly “He and I were...close”.

  
“That's one way to put it.”She keeps looking at him. “Our king told me that you spoke for him.”

  
Ice floods Jord's veins at the reminder of that night. “I did.”

  
“Why?”

  
“Because I cared for your son.”

  
Unexpectadly, she laughs. “You didn't even _know_ my son. You only saw what he wanted you to see. That misguided child cared for nothing but the affection of that monster, and he would have done anything to obtain it, including stepping so low as to roll over for you.” The bitternes in her voice morphs into contempt. “Or are you naive enough to think that any of your interactions were genuine?”

  
Jord thinks of Aimeric's smile, of his sharp tongue. He thinks of him in the throes of passion, his head tossed back and his cheeks flushed, murmuring Jord's name. He thinks of his determination, his infuriating stubborness. He remembers his voice after Orlant's death, a desperation in it that makes so much sense now that he knows Aimeric was talking about himself _(“A traitor? He was your friend! You would have killed him for that?”)_. He sees the blood draining from his face that night in the tower, when he realized Jord was going to witness his humiliation. He hears his sobs at Laurent's cruel words. He remembers a message held in lifeless fingers _(“I'm sorry”_ ), and for the first time he knows without a doubt that what happened between them was never a lie.

The realization is painful. It would be easier, in a way, to blame Aimeric, to hate him,to think that he was a cold blooded manipulator. If he was just a boy who had never known love, so desperate for affection that he would have gladly received it from the hand of his abuser, then Jord could have saved him. He could have shown him what real affection was like, could have talked him out of his treachery, could have offered him something worth living for. He could have...he _should_ have...

 

His hands are trembling faintly.

  
Loyse is still there, watching him with hard eyes, and he knows he has to speak, but he was never good with words and now his thoughts are mangled and there's a lump in his throat.

  
“I wish he had told me” he says, voice raw “I wish I had known”

  
She scoffs. “Why? So you could have had him killed as a traitor before he could do any real damage?” her lips curl into a cruel smile. “Or so you could have avoided soiling yourself with the waste of an other man's bed?”

  
Jord has to fight the urge to recoil at the way she speaks of her son.

  
“No” he says, and his voice breaks on his next words “So that I could have helped him”.

  
Loyse wasn't expecting his anwer. The mask of detouched disdain she has donned for the entirety of their encounter falls away into nothing, revealing the truth underneath. There's surprise on her face, and sorrow, and a profound guilt is etched in faint lines on her brow: for the first time he sees the grieving mother, the woman who betrayed her husband at the risk of her own life to bring her son's murderers to justice. It's painfully clear that her spite and her wounding words were nothing but a defense. She was expecting accusations and contempt, not compassion. Not regret.

  
Her eyes are moist, now, and huge. They're Aimeric's eyes.

  
Jord can't face her anymore. He walks toward the door with all the dignity he can muster. “His last words were for me.” he stops to say, his hand on the door handle, “They will never be forgotten.” He goes.

In the hallway, Nikandros is waiting for him, slumped against a marble column. Their eyes lock for a moment. Jord bows slowly in gratitude. “Any debt you had towards me, Nikandros of Delpha”he says “today has been repaid.”

  
His friend nods, then puts a warm hand on Jord’s shoulder. “Please” he says, voice as soft as it was that night near the kitchens of Karthas, a lifetime ago: “Never bow to me again”.  
They walk down the hallway as equals.

 

 

 

A few days later, lady Loyse is departing from Ios with a small contingent of soldiers, cortesy of the king- for protection, of course; the wavering loyalties of her family have nothing whatsoever to do with the armed veterans who have received the express order of never letting her out of their sight until they reach Fortaine. Jord can see that victory has not changed Laurent in the least. He can't suppress a smile.

  
His line of sight is suddenly occupied by Loyse's white horse. She is staring at the road ahead, and doesn't look at Jord when she speaks. “Thank you,”she whispers “for loving my son”.

  
As he watches her ride away, Jord can feell the first drops of hatred starting to ooze from his soul, like poison finally drawn out from a long infected wound.

  
________________________________________

 

Everything comes to an end where it started, inside the walls of Ravenel.

More than a year has passed since the day Nikandros entered the fort at the head of an Akielon army and marched in the courtyard to find his dead prince in the garments of a Veretian. As he hands his reins to a servant, Nikandros is overwhelmed by memories. Here is the spot where Damianos stood to greet him. There is the stone pavement upon which he knelt, disbelieving, in front of his king. The walls seem to echo with those long ago cries- _“He lives! The king's son lives. Damianos!”_ \- and he can still feel the tension of war in the air, can still see a sea of deep read and, in a corner, a little cluster of blue; twenty men; a starbust banner.

  
He hasn't seen Jord in two months. Their duties have called them to their respective countries, and the political upheavals caused by the kings' announcement of their intention of unifying the kingdoms have caused more than enough distress to keep them both occupied.

Now, though, to celebrate the anniversary of the victory against the usurpers, the kings of Akielos and Vere are going to hold court in the sites of their greatest military accomplishments: Ravenel is to be the first stop of a three months tour that will include Charcy, Fortaine, Karthas and finally Marlas, where the peace between their nations will be cemented by the royal marriage.  
The forts, of course, must be prepared to receive the nobility of not one, but two realms (one of which is _VERE_ ), not to mention the ambassadors and their retinues. This is why he is here two weeks before the start of the festivities. While the kings meet in private at Aquitart in order to _“better deal with the political ripercussions of our imminent union, given that Aquitart's legislation greatly differs from the veretian one”_ (which he's fairly sure is Laurent's way to say that he wants some alone time with Damen; he's _also_ fairly sure that their “activities” will include less diplomacy that they let on, and more sneaking around to Vaskian camps to partake in the invigorating effects of hakesh), Nikandros is meant to oversee the preparations, welcome the guests and nip any potential assassination attempt in the bud.

  
Damen is _so_ going to pay him back for this.

  
Trying to hold onto any positive thought he can find, Nikandros scans the courtyard in search of Jord. He is supposed to help Nikandros with his (frankly daunting) tasks, and he has been looking foward to late night spar sessions and drunken games of cards. He still has to win back that knife, after all, as Jord never fails to remind him. His friends is nowhere to be seen. When he asks, the sentry tells him that Lord Jord (he smiles immagining Jord's face at the title) has indeed arrived that morning, but that no one has seen him around since noon. Nikandros looks at the sky. The sun is setting.

  
It's only then that he realizes he's not the only one for whom this place brings back memories. Suddenly he remembers _exactly_ what happen in this fort.

  
He swears loudly, causing the sentry to flinch, and runs into the keep. Luckily the servants have not changed, and the events of those days were exceptional enough that they are not easy to forget even a year later; thanks to their directions it takes him under five minutes to find the right rooms.

When he opens the door his heart is pounding.

The chambers are elegant, befitting an aristocrat, and there is nothing in them that suggest the tragedy consumed between these walls. They are earily clean: there isn't a speck of dust on any surface, and the windows ar polished to a shine, so that it's almost impossibole to notice the jagged hole in the lower windowpane.

Jord is bent over the table, his hands flat on the surface, his head lowered. He is shaking so hard Nikandros can hear his teeth clattering. “Jord?”there his no answer. He draws near, stopping only when he's able to see over Jord's shoulder and he notices the dark stain the man is staring at. With a surge of horror he realizes it's dry blood: damning evidence, absorbed by the old wood of the desk, undeniable. Undeletable.

  
“I should have been here” Jord chokes out “i should have...been with him...”.

  
He wants to touch him, but he doesn't dare. “It wasn't your fault” he says instead, willing his friend to believe him.

  
If possible, the trembling increases. “Why?”Jord whispers “Why did he do it?”. He looks at Nikandros and his eyes are so scared, so lost, that they take his breath away. He didn't think it was possible for this man to openly show this kind of emotion. There are no tears on his cheeks, but he looks impossibly young, impossibly helpless, like a very sick child asking his mother why he's hurting.

  
“Why...” he whimpers, but he never gets to finish.

  
Nikandros kisses him.

  
He kisses him deeply, trying to get past his hurt. He wants to claim this man, to hold him, to protect any of his vulnerabilities with his own flesh and blood. If Jord needs a defense against the ghosts that haunt him, Nikandros himself will be a fort more impregnable than Marlas, and he will weather every attack until he ceases to exist.

  
They are both out of breath by the time they draw back.

  
He absently realizes that his grip on Jord's arms is going to leave bruises.

  
After a moment Jord dives back in, kissing without finesse, with none of the gentleness for which he is reknown. He kisses with open want.

  
They can't stay here, Nikandros thinks wildly. They can't do this in this rooms, in this sanctuary of death, with the spectre of another watching them. Without a word he takes Jord by the hand and leads him, slowly, towards the door. Jord follows.

 

 

They make love in a room similar to the one they've just left. They don't notice: in fact, they barely make it to the bed.

They join in a way that is instinctual and wild, raw, so intense that no words need to be spoken. There aren't sweet whispers or soft touches between them, but bites and scratches and desperate kisses. They make love like they spar: it's an endless back and fort, a meeting of equals with nothing held back. It's strength and fire and fury, boiling blood, a clash of sharp blades, a dance of wild animals.

  
That night Jord offers himself like he never has before, not even as a boy (like he rarely will again, and only ever to one man). For once he doesn't have to give, to lead: he is a receptacle of pleasure, and he gives himself over to it, riding it like a wave. He lets his body react as it wants, and his mind is empty of anything but the strong body around him, beneath him, inside him. Nothing esists beyond muscles and sweat; the universe begins and ends in the shade of brown of Nikandros's skin, the salty taste of his lips, the warmth of his seed. He wraps his arms and his tighs around him, unwilling to let go, his head tossed back and his hands clutched arounds fistfuls of dark curls.

He comes with Nikandros's name on his lips.

 

  
________________________________________

 

 

The next morning the world feels different. Jord stands in front of the fireplace, shrouded in nothing but the gray light of dawn. For the first time in more than a year he feels light. Clean. He is completely, impossibly, empty of hatred.  
He tightens his hand around the old piece of paper he's holding, and hears Nikandros's voice resounding faintly in his memory: _“He's not going to come back, no matter how tightly you hold onto him.”_ He takes a shuddering breath, eyes closed, then tosses the crumpled message into the fire.

As it burns, he can see the neatly written words as if the've been branded on the back of his eyelids: _“I'm sorry, Jord.”_

  
“I'm sorry too” he whispers “Rest in peace”.

  
When he finally opens his eyes, the fire is dead and there is ash swirling in the air. Everything is so peaceful. So silent.

  
Then he hears a muffled grunt from behind him, the rustle of sheets on the bed. “Jord?”

  
He turns, smiling, at the sound of that voice. Nikandros is stretched out on the pillows like a lazy lion, his rough dark skin in stark relief against the white covers . His hair is touseld and he's blinking, bleary eyed, against the sun. Affection wells up in Jord's chest and he marvels, once again, at how strong this man is, how beautiful.

  
Nikandros extends an hand towords him, a glint in his eyes. They are fierce and warm, like the rest of him. “Come here” he says brusquely.

 

  
Jord does.

**Author's Note:**

> This two are going to be the death of me! I am always willing to discuss headcanons about Jord and Nikandros (or Captive Prince in general). You can find me on tumblr as @fragiledewdrop (my main blog) or @ahandfulofsapphires (my Captive prince side blog).  
> I hope you enjoyed it. Comments would be much appreciated ;)


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